


Sweetness, I Was Only Joking

by Frankly_Mr_Shankly



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:54:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28753224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frankly_Mr_Shankly/pseuds/Frankly_Mr_Shankly
Summary: As if they were animals engaging in interspecies friendship, they seemed locked into a kind of unshakeable dynamic, and could only interact in this one way, limited by their respective natures. Tom was a posturing lizard with a puffed up chest and fanned-out neck frills, and Greg was a Borzoi—dopey, skittish, and cartoonishly proportioned.But when Duane, the doorman, called up at 3 in the morning to tell Tom there was a Borzoi passed out in the lobby who he thought he recognized as one of his old assistants, and should he call the police or help him upstairs…well, it marked an unprecedented shift in the Tom & Greg paradigm.
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 17
Kudos: 42





	1. Me, Tom. You, Greg.

**Author's Note:**

> Never done this before, but this fandom is super small and smart and inspiration struck. Anyway, ALL the character Dynamics in this show are undeniably interesting, and I had the urge to poke at Tom and Greg's. So here's whatever comes out. I'm dreadfully slow and really relish the tension, and I honestly don't fully know where this is going, but that helps me keep in character. Anyway, who knows! Sorry for the double Smiths reference—surprised I haven't seen them or Morrissey invoked before. Stupidly fitting for these dummies.

The amount of times Tom had insinuated himself into Greg’s personal space in the past—showing up at his loft unannounced, strong-arming him into sherpa duty on work trips, and constantly breaking the unwritten laws of propriety to crowd his nine-foot frame into almost kissable distance—well, it was not a pattern, it was a rule. As if they were animals engaging in interspecies friendship, they seemed locked into a kind of unshakeable dynamic, and could only interact in this one way, limited by their respective natures. Tom was a posturing lizard with a puffed up chest and fanned-out neck frills, and Greg was a Borzoi—dopey, skittish, and cartoonishly proportioned.

But when Duane, the doorman, called up at 3 in the morning to tell Tom there was a Borzoi passed out in the lobby who he thought he recognized as one of his old assistants, and should he call the police or help him upstairs…well, it marked an unprecedented shift in the Tom & Greg paradigm.

Tom was so shocked he didn’t know what to say at first, but eventually he managed to unlock his jaw enough to tell Duane not to do anything, that he’d come down and handle it himself. He hung up the phone, and sat in utter puzzlement for a moment. Then, he put on sweats and slippers, and ventured out of his apartment in a daze.

The hall lights in his building glowed from recessed fixtures, so that they seemed to emanate from the wall panels. This created a dark atmosphere that, though undeniably chic and sexy, always made him feel like he was in the middle of some slick political thriller. Like there might be someone waiting around any corner to sneak out and stick him with a needle full of poison—or, you know, something _like_ that. Not that he’d thought about the specifics. Not that he’d had recurring nightmares, particularly around Thanksgiving last year, about that very sequence of events. He scratched at his neck for all 20 stories of his descent to the lobby.

He found Greg right away, body crunched up on one of the benches in the waiting area, which he knew from experience were intensely uncomfortable. They were chosen by management for that very reason—to avoid situations like these. _Loiterers not welcome._

He lifted a hand to acknowledge Duane at the other end of the palatial entryway as he took long, swift steps toward Greg.

Duane raised a hand back, moving from behind his post, “Good evening, Mr. Wambsgans. I’m sorry to have woken you up at this hour, but…” Duane looked down at the lump of Greg anxiously.

“No, no. I’m glad you called. I’m sorry about him, this is…” He scratched the back of his head tiredly, sighed, “I don’t really know what’s going on here, to be honest.” He threw the doorman an apologetic look.

Tom pulled a chair up next to Greg’s bench to get a closer look at him. His hair was sweaty and hanging over his face. His suit was rumpled and stained. Unsurprisingly, he smelled like booze and vomit. There was some dried blood under his nose, and his arms were crossed protectively over his midsection. Tom reached out a hand to gently shake Greg’s shoulder.

“Hey. Greg? Greg. Wake up, Greg.”

Greg whimpered a little, but remained limp and slack-jawed. Tom looked back at Duane, who was hovering nervously.

“Can I trouble you for some water?”

Duane nodded and disappeared into a room behind the mailboxes.

Greg’s eyelids fluttered as Tom returned to shaking him, a little more forcefully now. He felt the beginnings of worry stewing in his stomach.

“Greg? Are you alive, man?”

Greg’s large eyes opened at last, blinking in protest against the light. He winced. When his eyes adjusted, they found Tom’s. He looked startled, even scared, his expression almost pleading as his gaze flit over Tom’s face.

“Do you know where you are?”

Greg closed his eyes and seemed to lose consciousness again, briefly, before suddenly hoisting himself to sit upright. Tom sprung up to help him, placing steadying hands on his shoulders.

“Whoa, whoa, watch it! Don’t—“

Greg groaned, swaying into Tom in a fit of dizziness, grabbing blindly at Tom’s sweatshirt, one hand twisting the fabric at his chest, and the other at his side. Greg’s head drooped forward into Tom’s stomach as he clung onto him, recovering.

“Greg. If you feel like you’re gonna throw up, you have to warn me.”

Greg nodded his head against Tom.

“Do you think you can make it to the elevator?”

He nodded again.

Duane reappeared with a mini-bottle of water. He looked between them, alarmed. Tom stuck out his hand, beckoning for the water bottle. Greg pulled him closer, sighing.

“Greg. Water.”

His large head shifted away from Tom’s stomach, and he lifted it to look up. This was the first time Tom got a good look at Greg’s face, his hair falling back out of his eyes, which were half-open and glazed-over. His pupils were saucers. He was on another planet, and Tom could only really think: _oh no._

He unscrewed the cap and nudged the mouth of the water bottle against Greg’s lips in suggestion. His eyes were vacant, and still firmly glued to Tom’s. He closed them slowly, in childlike submission, as Tom tipped the bottle gently, and he pursed his lips to drink.

And it was at this ridiculous moment, while bottle-feeding his former assistant, watching water dribble out of the sides of his mouth as he clung to Tom’s sweatshirt and suckled like a baby lamb, that all the anger came rushing back to him. He retracted the bottle suddenly, and threw the rest of the water into Greg’s face.

_Trust no one. Ever, Greg._

Greg’s eyes opened wide, mouth forming a little “o”, and he garbled and sputtered faintly in shock. He retracted his hands from Tom to wipe at his face, curling in on himself.

“That’s enough. Time to get up, _Greg._ ” Tom spat.

He grabbed one of Greg’s arms, wrapped it around his neck, clapped a hand around his ribs, and pulled him up roughly. Greg squawked in protest. Duane jerked forward, hands outstretched, moving to help, but Tom stopped him.

“It’s ok, I can take it from here. Sorry for the trouble, man.” He took $50 out of his pocket and shook Duane’s hand with it. He gestured to Greg, who was lolling in his arms, “Kendall’s new protégé, ah-ha.” He grimaced and sputtered as some of Greg’s wet hair flapped into his mouth.

Duane chuckled, “Don’t worry about it, I’ve seen it all.” He put the cash in his pocket, “Thank you.”

He rushed up ahead to push the button as the two of them trudged across the lobby to the elevator bank.

Greg leaned against him like a fallen tree the whole way up. He was trembling and making small, pained noises every so often. By the time the doors opened, Tom’s wrist was smarting from supporting most of their weight against the handrail, and his breathing was a little labored. Fighting exhaustion, he wrapped his arms tightly around Greg and all but dragged him to the door.

Greg moaned in his ear as he fished out his keys, and then he uttered the first word he’d spoken that night: “Tom.” It was startlingly clear, almost sober-sounding.

Tom set to work unlocking the door, and did not look up as he said, “Yes. Me, Tom. You, Greg.”

Against all odds, they made it across the foyer and fell unceremoniously onto the sofa. It was the first time Tom actually cursed the obscene square footage of his and Shiv’s apartment.

“You’re a lucky son of a bitch, you know. You’re lucky you’re too fucked up for me to punch you, and you’re lucky Shiv is out of town right now.”

Mondale shambled over, whining as he sniffed at Greg. Tom finally chanced a glance at Greg’s face, finding he was already looking intently at him, sitting with his head leaned all the way back against the sofa. Tom knew he was really fucked up then, because otherwise he would have shifted focus to the dog. He would have had his dumb face buried in his fur by now.

“Tom?” he breathed.

Tom raised his eyebrows and gave an impatient look, eschewing the ‘what?’ response that Greg seemed to be asking for. If Greg wanted to say something, he could nut up and say it.

Greg sighed big, furrowing his brow. A drunken rendition of the way he usually looked when he was about to say something he’d really rather not say at all. Tom knew that face well.

Greg looked down bashfully, still frowning. He moved a sluggish hand to grab at his shirt, pulling it out of his pants. He hissed and grimaced, reaching for his belt. He looked up at Tom as he unbuckled it.

Tom looked back at him, trying to locate the sober person buried inside.

“Greg. _What?_ ”

Greg looked pained, struggling with the bottom buttons of his shirt, “H-help?” He pulled Tom’s wrist towards him.

Tom sighed tensely, and hesitated before undoing the bottom few buttons of his dirty shirt. He looked up at Greg questioningly. Greg looked back at him, his eyebrows slanted.

“Is it bad?”

Something dawned on Tom, then, and he pushed Greg’s shirt up. Several gnarly bruises decorated his stomach.

“Fuck. Who—is this Kendall?”

Greg shook his head, puffing his breath and squirming in discomfort, “Not this…just…got fucked up with Kendall. Got mugged…after.”

He didn’t think the bruises looked bad enough to start worrying about internal bleeding, but he didn’t know if Greg had taken pills, or something worse.

“Do you know what you took?” Greg shook his head, eyes closing. Tom shook his shoulder, “This is important, Greg. Fuck. Do I need to take you to the hospital?”

“No, no hospital.” His eyes shot open suddenly, and he grabbed Tom’s arm. “Ummm. I think I’m gonna—I mean, I feel like I might…Tom…”

Tom tore his eyes from Greg’s stomach to retrieve the kitchen trashcan, hurrying back with it.

“If you get vomit on this sofa, Greg, you won’t be answering to me.”

Greg’s eyes were closed, and he looked like he was praying—more likely, he was focusing too hard on not puking to listen. He burped. Tom pushed the trashcan between his legs. He lurched forward into it and convulsed suddenly. Tom averted his eyes, and almost without thinking, raised an arm to rub Greg’s back as he threw up.

***

Tom tucked him into the guest bed after that. He brought him a disgusting hangover cure the next morning before his run, and watched him gag and force it down, a little smugly.

When Greg came into the kitchen two hours later, freshly showered and wearing Tom’s clothes, he looked contrite and fidgety.

“I’m going to have to fumigate the whole apartment. You left the funk of 40,000 years in here.”

Greg blushed, struggling to look him in the eye. “I’m so sorry, Tom. I’m…really embarrassed. I just—”

Tom interrupted his trail, “I just don’t understand why you came here, of all places. Do you think—”

Greg nodded, interrupted him back, “I know, I know. I was out of my mind. I wasn’t thinking. I guess it was just a reflex? Your address is the only one I really know, like, by heart.” He blushed stupidly, looking to Mondale for support.

“How sweet, Greg.” He'd very nearly slipped, called him pigman out of habit, but that felt too familiar now. Too friendly. He sighed, “Problem is, when you report this to the police, you’re gonna have to tell them you were here. It won’t look good, you know? For me, or for you, if it gets out.”

“Um. Yeah, I know. I’m not gonna do that. Report it, I mean.”

“What did they take?”

“My watch. It was an old one of Kendall’s, anyway. Uhh, my phone, and whatever drugs I had.” He blushed here, ”Like, probably just a little weed. And, um, cards, a bunch of cash, and…my money clip. Like, the one—the one you gave me.”

Tom chuckled grimly. “Fuck. As much as I may want to kill you, I don’t want you to _die_ now, because I'll be implicated. So tell me you’ll at least see a doctor.” He nodded pointedly at Greg’s belly.

Greg nodded, ghosted a hand protectively over his stomach. He looked wrecked. “Yeah, yeah. Like, I will. Definitely.”

Tom had an intrusive flashback of Greg’s infuriatingly vulnerable moon-face lapping water from his hand, and he couldn’t help asking, with a put-upon sigh, “Are you alright?”

Greg’s eyes snapped to his, “Uh, you mean now…or, or in general?”

“Whichever.”

Greg searched his face, looking like he maybe wanted to say something. “I gotta go, I think, Tom.” He raised a hand holding his wadded up suit from the night before, “Gotta drop off the old dry cleaning, heh,” his smile sagged quickly.

“Sure.” Tom followed him to the front door.

Greg turned to him in the mood-lit hallway, looking sweaty and devastatingly earnest. “Thanks, man.” It reminded Tom, spookily, of Hungary.

“Put your hood up. Make sure no one sees you.” He raised his eyebrows and waved a palm, flung the door shut.


	2. Designated Fuckface

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw sorry Greg had a really hard time speaking in this one

After the yacht, Logan iced Tom out of the inner sanctum. He was locking Shiv, Gerri, Karolina, Roman, Frank, and the rest of them in round-the-clock strategy meetings. Shiv had been "out East" (at the Hamptons fortress) with them that weekend, retreating for damage control. Tom was only invited to deposition prep when they'd returned, and it was clear his input wasn’t needed or welcome.

He and Shiv were leaning on each other for support, but at best it was an empty, desperate, end-of-days fuckfest. They clung to each other for warmth, to remember they were still together, to feel like there was something familiar in the middle of an all-out insurrection. Love in wartime.

Sounds romantic, but it really wasn’t. There was a specter—the threat of prison, defamation, public shaming—hanging in the air around them. There was a sad look in Shiv’s eyes all the time now, even when she was being funny or mean or sexy. She pitied him, and he felt it. She was scared for herself. She was scared of everything changing. She didn’t have that unassailable confidence anymore. It wasn’t all because of Kendall's press conference, either. What Tom said in Croatia had poisoned the well irreversibly, and they both knew it.

Tom didn’t tell Shiv about the Greg incident. He just cleaned up and never said anything. The whole episode was haunting him like a bad dream. He hated the memory of realizing something was very wrong, of uncovering Greg’s bruises. It had been dark like the movie Tom was scared of ending up in the middle of. He kept shuffling through nightmare scenarios where Greg turned out to have been more seriously injured than he realized.

He didn’t like that it had been so easy to lie to Shiv, either, or that he hadn't felt guilty afterward. He'd always found lying to her difficult, in the past. He didn’t like how much less he was starting to feel towards her, in general.

Four days later, the queasy feeling had started to fade, and he’d begun to forget, until a text from an unfamiliar number appeared on his phone.

**_Are you free after work?_ **

Tom looked blankly at the screen. Likely someone from the legal team whose number he never saved.

_I’m sorry, I don’t recognize this number. Who is this?_

**_Sry it’s Greg_**

_Burner phone?_

**_Sort of_**

**_Also my other one was stolen_ **

_What’s this about?_

**_Can we talk about it in person?_ ** ****

_Not safe._

**_You’ll want to hear it trust me_** ****

Tom laughed openly at his phone. Trust him.

_Trust who? How do I even know it’s really you?_

A couple of minutes passed, and a video thumbnail popped up on his screen. He opened it, and there was that big familiar egghead, inching today’s _New York Times_ up under his chin into frame, and reciting a phone number that matched the one Tom could see on the top of his screen.

“See?” he said, face too close to the camera. “It’s me. Let me know if you need more proof, like—the newspaper seemed like the easiest—I dunno—“ a sigh, and he must have dropped his phone, because the video cut off on a blurry still of the ceiling.

Tom was relieved to have confirmation that Greg was alive, and he hadn't been criminally negligent after all. No men in big black coats expected at his door. He rolled his eyes, typed back a few messages in quick succession:

_The Greenwich in Tribeca._

_It’s on you._

_Use a fake name._

_Don’t be an idiot._

He knew a small boutique hotel was always the safest bet–he learned that from Shiv and her Washington secrets. Downtown, far west, where they likely wouldn’t run into anyone in their orbit. Greg sent him the reservation a few minutes later, along with:

**_is 7 ok?_ **

_This better not be a trap, after what you pulled on Friday._

**_This is me making it up to you_** ****

**_***_ **

Tom had another hellish workday dodging press and dishing out the company “hold off until you hear more” line, acting as the designated fuckface. By the time 6:30 rolled around, he was a battered husk.

He fabricated a banal alibi for his assistant, and trudged to the E at 54th street. He’d always hated the subway, and added “suffering the indignity of public transport” to his list of Things to Hold Against Greg.

He knocked on the door of the suite at 7:16. He may have intentionally miscalculated travel time, just to make The Boy sweat.

Said Boy opened the door almost immediately, as if he’d been pacing in front of it. It was startling to see him looking so put together, after the last time they'd seen each other. He must have had meetings that day, because he was wearing a clean, pressed suit, and had his phone glued to his ear. He gave Tom an apologetic look and stepped aside to let him in.

Tom raised an eyebrow in reply, wordlessly projecting "don't fuck with me". His temper flared as he passed into the room, listening to Greg mutter obsequiously into the receiver.

“Uh-huh, yeah. Ok, ok. I gotta—Kendall? I gotta go, really. I’ll call you back. Ok? Sorry, man. Alright. Bye.”

Tom loosened his tie, hot from climbing too many stairs, and found the minibar immediately. He gathered three little bottles of scotch and settled on the fluffy sofa to pour them, one-by-one, into a glass on the coffee table.

“You’ve got until I finish this drink, Hirsch.”

He picked up the glass and drank a third in one go, raising it to Greg before settling back into the couch. Greg stood awkwardly for a moment before sitting in a chair across from him.

“I’m just gonna—ok look, I’m gonna get right to the point, because I get you don’t trust me, and you hate my guts and everything, but. This may be hard to hear. So I don’t want to be, like, insensitive, or whatever?”

Tom stared back at him humorlessly, “I can handle it.”

Greg sighed, shaking his head and smoothing his hands on his pant legs, “Ok. They’re, Logan’s gonna sacrifice you. You’re the—the Patsy…or, whatever you wanna call it. They’re gonna pin Cruises on you.”

“Bull _shit_. I’ve seen their plan,” he snapped

“Have they—are you fully briefed, though? Like, have you been at all the meetings? Or…or just Shiv?”

Tom shook his head, "I'm not answering any questions, here."

Greg squirmed uncomfortably and cleared his throat, “Right. Yeah. You don't have to.”

“So you think that my wife is plotting behind my back?”

“Just...ok. You don't have to answer, I'm just gonna, like, put the question out there, and you can think about it. Are you and Shiv on good terms right now?” Greg looked alarmed, like he was bracing for impact.

Tom's answering glare was deadly.

“I’m sorry to be, like, blunt about this, but…you know I already know some stuff. Some history…some gory details. It's not like—“

“Shiv and I fuck more now than we _ever_ have.” Greg’s face went slack, and Tom sighed, “So, no. We’re not on good terms.” He took another hefty sip of scotch.

Greg looked lost. He began nodding, over and over again, like a horse, “Right. Right. Ok. I’m–look, I’m sorry, Tom. There’s no easy way to break this news. But I know stuff. I know you think I’m an idiot, but I _know_ what I'm talking about, like, in this particular case.”

“I don’t think you’re an idiot at all, Greg. To the contrary. You’ve made that abundantly clear by now.”

Greg bristled, “I’m trying to make it up to you, dude. I’m sticking my neck way out for you, here.”

He raised his eyebrows mockingly, “Are you, now?”

“Kendall doesn’t know I’m here. No one does.”

Tom’s heart sank, and he scoffed, "Well, fuck, Greg!"

Greg's face searched his, confused, "What?"

He rubbed his face, “What’s your play, then? You drop a truth bomb into my lap without instructions for how to defuse it? How does this help me, exactly? Because the way I see it, if this isn’t an invitation to _join_ you and Kendall, then you’ve really just handed me my death certificate. Now I’ll just sit around and count the days until my execution, huh? I’ll continue living in my house, with my wife, who’s condemned me to die by her father’s own hand. What else can I do?”

Somewhere along the way, Tom's voice had risen to a yell, and he had begun to leak tears. He wiped at them angrily, and finished his drink.

“And that's assuming any of this is true, at all. This is my payback for last weekend, after you wake me up at 3am and I hold your hair back? Would’ve been better if you’d invited me here to cut my dick off. Fuck!”

With tears streaming down his face, it was obvious he knew it was all true, but he was grateful that Greg was playing along, playing the placater. He was always accommodating like that. 

Greg walked hesitantly over to the couch and sat down next to him.

“It _is_ —it is an invitation.”

Tom looked up. Greg met his eyes, then looked down, “I just…need to convince Kendall now.”

Tom sat staring at Greg, and neither of them spoke for a long time. Greg leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and angled towards Tom.

“I’m really sorry, man. I was thinking…you could stay with me, you know, once it’s all arranged? So you’re not, like, in some hotel.” One of Greg’s giant hands flopped forward, as if he was making a casual suggestion.

“Fucking hell.” Tom slumped back onto the couch and looked up at the ceiling, still actively crying.

He was a 42-year-old executive on the precipice of total personal and professional ruin, and his only lifeline was a Canadian marionette who’d executed a corporate espionage scheme through pure shamelessness and dumb luck. A worm, essentially, who he didn't fucking trust.

“Are you ok?”

"Shut the fuck up."

He leaned forward and rested his head in his hands. If he took the deal, he was pathetic, and forever in Greg's debt. If he didn't, he was utterly cucked and just biding his time until he was behind bars. He could call his mom, but what would that do, really? When faced with a consequence like federal prison, he could no longer hold up the ruse that his mother's Twin Cities legal chops were any match for the Roys' celebrity-grade silencers.

Maybe he _should_ call his mom, though, for emotional support. He was feeling panicky, and had to hold his chest to try to tamp down his heartbeat. He thought back to the first day he met Greg, his awful Land's End jacket, and his embarrassing solicitousness. He wished he'd seen this coming.

"What are the chances Kendall says yes?"

Greg's voice cracked, "I-Pretty good, I think."

"You _think_? You couldn't have floated the idea to him first, genius?"

Greg looked away uncomfortably, and Tom sighed.

"You know I have to say yes, so just—let's stop acting like there's any other way."

He walked to the minibar and opened a beer.

“Hey, Tom?” Greg looked nervous, rolling a bottle of Ibuprofen between his palms.

Tom sighed, “ _What_ , Greg.”

"Yeah, it's just like—it's also, I need to know that you're on our side. Not just out of necessity, you know? Not just cause there's no better option."

Tom's face went red, "You're really committing to this, huh, Greg? You need to see me grovel?"

"No, no, I just mean, like, are we—um…are we friends?”

"Who? You and me?"

Greg nodded, "Uh-huh."

Tom shrugged, “Pending negotiations.”

“Seriously, Tom! Like—if it comes down to it. If something really bad were to happen, like—are we _friends_?” His face was open, beseeching. 

“You betrayed me, Greg, and I still rubbed your stupid back while you vomited in my living room. What do you think? Don’t make me say it.” He wiped his wet face, powering right through the shame of it all.

Greg nodded shiftily, tucking his hair behind his ear, “Yeah. Okay.” he let out a breath, “I just—ok. Like, I’m about to do something for you, and I need it to be on my terms this time. Because, before? I was scared of you, like, _most_ of the time. And—I know you’re a good guy, deep down, but you can’t treat me like—like your gimp, or something…anymore. You know?”

Tom laughed, “ _Gimp_ , Greg? Don't use words you don't understand."

" _Tom._ " He looked about as close to losing his temper as Tom had ever seen him.

"Okay, easy. Are you trying to make some kind of a deal here? This is sounding a lot like the time you asked to blackmail me.”

“No, it’s—“ Greg sighed exasperatedly, searched the floor for his words, “It’s not like that. That’s what I’m trying to say. I just…want an even playing field. I respect you, Tom. I’m just asking for the same from you. In, like, in return.”

“I won’t treat you like my little bitch boy anymore, ok? You’re not my assistant. I get it. What power do I have left to wield over you here, anyway, Greg? I mean look at me, here!” He laughed, looking down at himself. 

Greg looked over at him sympathetically, and he hated it.

He raised an accusatory finger, “But you have to promise me something too, you little shit.”

Greg looked at him expectantly.

“No betrayal, and no _fucking_ pity.”

Greg nodded, “Yeah. No. Of course. Deal. The...the friendship thing, like, goes both ways.” He paused, then breathed in, like he was about to say something, but stopped himself just before it came out.

“What? Christ, Greg. Speak! We’re here. You paid for the room and everything.”

Greg released the breath he was holding.

“Part of the reason I, like, went behind your back in the first place was because I didn’t think you thought of me as a legit, like, friend. There was always some game, like, something _afoot_." He gesticulated excitedly, hands up next to his head, like he was play-acting mystery.

"It was fucking with my head, man. You wouldn't stop talking about rules, like, ‘eat or be eaten’, and like, ‘don’t trust anyone.’ Human footstools, and all that...stuff. So. I felt like I was doing what you would have done, like, the way you taught me." He let out a long breath.

"You can just be confusing, and I need things to be clearer, from here on out. Like, that's not my style, and I don't think it's really yours, either. I think the other night—that kind of proved it for me, that you’re not really this...terrible prick. And of all the people involved in this, it's wrong if you're the one who goes to prison. This is...a big deal to me. To a lot of people, I think.”

Tom was gobsmacked at hearing Greg talk and actually say something, for once, that he just said, “Fuck.”

His impulse was anger, but he held it back in favor of gulping his beer down. There was a pregnant pause while Greg just stared at him. Tom thought he may have reached his verbal limit for the day.

He couldn’t think of a real response, so he just said, “I’m gonna stay here tonight, I think.”

Greg furrowed his brow, slow on the uptake. He nodded, “Oh, yeah. Ok.”

“Not wild about the idea of going home right now.”

“Yeah, of course. Makes sense.” Another awkward pause.

“Do you need my help, with Kendall? Strategy?”

“No, no. I think I got it. Are you—like, are we good?”

"Yeah, Greg. We're good." He said, curtly, "I'll just sit here with my thumb up my ass til you send word."

Greg sighed, got up and smoothed his pants. Tom followed him out. He felt needy all of a sudden, and didn’t want to be left alone in the room. He was afraid of the feelings he’d be burdened with once Greg left.

He grabbed Greg’s arm in the entryway, and he turned with a, “Hm?”

“Thank you. For telling me. I can't imagine I’m, ah, gonna be an easy sell, so let me know if there’s anything I can do to smooth things over.”

Greg jerked forward haltingly then, and hugged him. It was awkward and familiar.

“I’m really…yeah. It’s gonna be good. I know how to sell you, man. You’re not actually a hard sell.”

Greg smiled at him hesitantly. Tom grimaced, searching Greg's vacant face doubtfully for signs of assuredness that might stave off his approaching panic attack. 

“Don't fuck it up, please.”


	3. Heavy Indica

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol they are never going to fuck Greg is asexual I don't know how to make it seem plausible

Greg reappeared unexpectedly, around midnight. 

By this time, Tom had had two panic attacks, drunk half the liquor in the room, and almost called his mother several times. Drawing on limited stores of self restraint, he’d only called Shiv once, and aborted mission after two rings. Without Greg’s appearance at his door, he would’ve been on his way home to her in a matter of minutes. He couldn’t stop thinking about how easy it would be to pretend like nothing was wrong. To curl up next to her and smell her hair and decide to have amnesia.

“Hey. I wasn’t sure you’d still be here.” Greg was sweaty and jumpy, glancing over his shoulder in either direction, as though someone might be coming to grab him from the hallway at any minute.

“Want me to leave, so you can smuggle in your hooker?” Greg looked a little offended at this. Tom stepped aside to let him in, and directed a question to his back, “Second time in a week you’re showing up drunk at my door. Is this bad news?”

He stretched out his wingspan and sighed, finding the sofa. “Have to wait until I’m sober to talk to Kendall. Til, like, daylight hours.”

He looked wearily at Tom from across the room. 

“Doesn’t _fill_ me with confidence to know that Kendall’s off the wagon.”

“He’s, uh, not off the wagon. Still very much on. The wagon.”

“So, what, you get fucked up, and he watches? Kinky.”

“No, man. It’s complicated. Like, you were into footstooling and verbal abuse, and Kendall has his own methods.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Incentives, you know? He’s kind of training me, in the evenings.” Greg wasn’t strictly making eye contact, and Tom wondered if he should be calling social services, or the ASPCA, to report Kendall as an abusive guardian.

“Jesus Christ, Greg. You’re in a fucking frat.”

“No, no. He’s a good teacher, really. And he’s kind of right, like—my manner isn’t always the most conducive to business, like I’m not a shark. I’m not exactly imposing, aside from my height, you know? He thinks I need toughening up.”

Tom looked at him, sitting there on the edge of the sofa, bouncing his leg compulsively. He remembered his bachelor party, when Greg had done all that coke, and Kendall had that vicious look in his eye. 

“Yeah, I can tell it’s really working.” Tom quipped.

“Anything left in the, uh, the old minibar?”

“Barely.” He walked over to it and grabbed two funsized bottles of tequila, handed one to Greg and clinked with him, smirking, before downing it in one. Greg did his in sputtering thirds, gagging a little, and Tom snorted.

“Keep practicing, buddy.”

He felt relieved to have company again. Despite the sudden, seismic shift in their relationship, he was having a nostalgic urge to crowd into Greg’s space. Like an old eczema patch reawakening. He had to actively concentrate to resist it.

Greg was looking through his jacket pockets, and eventually pulled out a joint.

“You, uh…mind if I smoke this? I, like, need to chill.”

Tom raised his eyebrows “Go for it.” He watched Greg lick a little at an edge of the paper that had come unstuck at the end, “I forgot you were a pothead.”

Greg looked up at him, “Dude, I’m not. That word’s not a thing.”

“Now you’re going to tell me its medicinal, right?” He put on his dufus Greg voice, “ _It’s for my, like, anxiety, so, like, I don’t shit my pants when Kendall makes me do coke.”_

“Fuck you, man.” he shuffled to the window, opened it, and dug a lighter out of his pants pocket.

Tom watched as the flame lit up his face, and smoke curled into the room, rather than out the window. The twisted tip of paper burned up fast, and Greg took the spliff out of his mouth to blow at the end, to stop it from burning unevenly. He took a drag and inhaled, closing his eyes, hand fidgeting with the lighter at his side. Smoke trickled out of his nose before he sent it finally through his mouth, aimed it out the open window. Greg _was_ a pothead—no question.

He blinked his eyes open lazily, and turned to Tom, “Want some?” He held the joint out in offering.

Shiv smoked occasionally, as a treat, but Tom had never really been into it. He’d take a puff to humor her, but she usually just ended up laughing at him as he coughed, then going all feline and crawling into his lap for a dissociated fuck, which was her favorite kind.

Tom got up and took it. Greg watched him, tucking his hair behind his ear. He was still flicking the lighter on and off at his side. Tom held the joint like a cigarette as he inhaled. He only coughed a little. Greg didn’t laugh, just kept clicking the lighter, gaze switching between Tom and the window.

“I'm on the edge of my seat, here, Greg. You’re a nervous wreck. Are you getting cold feet, or something? Cause, you know, I'll gut you like a fish.”

Greg shrugged, shook his head, “No…no, it’s not that. I think it’s gonna be ok, really.”

“Well what, then?”

“Um…you?”

“Me.”

“Yeah.” Greg sighed deeply, taking the joint back.

“I’m ok, Greg.”

He nodded stupidly, blowing smoke out, ”It's just, I know it's a lot, with Shiv…it's gotta be a lot to process”

“Yes, and no. You know,” he answered, honestly. He didn’t want to say any more, for fear of bursting into tears again.

The weed hit Tom all at once: a heaviness of limbs, a wallowy body high.

“Shit.” Greg’s eyes were red and heavily lidded. “This is the wrong weed.”

“What do you mean, ' _wrong_ '?”

“This stuff is intense, man. Like, really heavy Indica? I usually only smoke it in bed. You know?”

Tom didn’t know, but an image flashed in his mind, of labeled jars of different weed strains arranged in Greg’s bedroom like in an old-timey apothecary. Of Greg in a lab coat, weighing nuggets and rolling precise joints with scientific instruments. He giggled—ok, this was strong shit.

“What?”

“Fucking pothead!” Tom guffawed.

Greg laughed, “Shut up, man. I gotta sit down.” He ashed the joint on the outside panel of the window, and dropped it, watched it fall.

Tom flicked on the TV, smiling involuntarily. They both flopped to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Think I could lie down a minute? I’ll leave soon, I just—” He cut himself off with a yawn.

“It’s your room, Greg. I’m just a squatting vagrant, here.”

Greg scooted back and unfurled himself, stretching out and groaning a little.

After a few minutes staring blankly at the TV, thinking Greg was asleep, Tom looked back at him. He wasn't asleep, but he looked comfortable. Strikingly unguarded. One of his arms was folded back behind his head over the massive wall of pillows stacked against the headboard. His feet reached all the way down to where Tom was sitting, and the overly plush hotel comforter puffed up around him like a little cocoon. He was watching the tv, eyelids heavy. His eyes flicked to meet Tom’s. He furrowed his brow.

“You good, man? It’s really strong, I told you.”

“I’m—yeah.” He cleared his throat, stood up. “Scoot over.” He swished his hand at Greg, urging him on. Greg’s eyes widened a little, and he scooted himself to make room as Tom stretched out next to him.

“You, uh. You good?”

“I’m good, Greg. I’m good. Stop worrying about me.”

“Uh huh. Okay.”

Tom was feeling tingly and occasionally twitchy. Gradually, he began to feel like he was melting into the mattress. Then, he felt like he wanted to hump the fucking soft-ass comforter under him. He wanted to rub his whole body against this bedding. His dick was waking up seemingly out of nowhere, entirely of its own accord.

Greg shifted next to him, adjusting a pillow behind him, and his foot bumped Tom’s, left a warm spot that he imagined visible, glowing red in the dimness of the room. Greg finally settled back, and Tom realized the warm spot _wasn’t_ visible—not to him—but that couldn’t stop him thinking about how close their legs were to each other right now.

Somewhere in Tom’s peripheral vision, Greg pulled out his phone, and started typing.

“Hey, man? I’m gonna get an Uber. I'm falling asleep over here.”

As Greg’s voice broke through the drone of ambient TV, Tom snapped out of his trance, as though waking from a quasi-dream state.

“Just sleep on the couch.” He rolled over onto his stomach and decided he was checking out of any further conversation.

Tom fell asleep almost immediately, making sweet love to the comforter.

***

He woke with a start, and it was pitch black in the room. He could hear breathing. He felt someone moving in the bed. Pressure on his hand. He turned his head quickly to find Greg’s moonlit form, still next to him. He was lying on his back, and one of his hands was wrapped loosely around Tom’s wrist. Tom stared down, then assessed the rest of him—other hand on his chest, twitching, grabbing at nothing. He was dreaming. Whimpering occasionally, his lips were moving, and looked like they were mouthing the beginnings of words, but nothing complete. He was drooling a slow drip onto his pillow.

Tom wanted to shake him awake and kick him out of bed, because he was affronted that Greg would impose like this, when he’d clearly told him to take the couch. But a more dominant and vocal part of him was high, and lonely. This small gesture of comfort, even if given unconsciously on Greg’s part, was enough to soothe a little of the snarling rage and heartbreak that threatened to consume him beneath this temporary haze. The Shiv problem kept popping into his head, and he had to conjure a mental image to continually push it away, away, away for later. For tomorrow Tom. 

So because he was high, and lonely, and anxious, he allowed Greg to invade his space in this harmless, passive way. He knew Greg to be a gentle person, a person who lacked self-awareness and was generally dull to social cues. It made Tom wonder about his personal life, like if he had any friends, or if all his relationships were situational and transactional—if he was always the odd one out, lurking on the fringes, or if that was just with the Roys, like it was for Tom. Maybe he had a whole other life somewhere, where he hung out with people who found his maladroitness endearing, and maybe even lovable. Where had he learned this gesture of connection? Who had he held like this before? It was such a liminal touch, the meaning of which could change entirely, depending on context. 

Greg stirred, hummed, and rolled onto his side, closer to Tom. He looked like a big baby. 

"Greg."

His eyes popped open, and he startled back. 

"Huh—what?"

“What happened to the couch?”

The hand on Greg’s chest lifted to rub at his eye and there was thick sleep in his voice, “I…I fell asleep.” As he came back to himself, squinting at Tom in the dark, he looked down at his other hand where it encircled Tom’s wrist. In the space of a split second, he looked up at Tom, drew his hand back, and uttered a gravelly, “uhhh”. 

“You take up a lot of space.” He raised a pointed eyebrow.

“Sorry. I’m so sleepy, man. This weed is no joke, like, it’s debilitating. I think I, like, forgot where I was.”

Tom sighed, and turned back over, “Just—stay on your side.”

***

When he woke up the next morning, he felt like he’d slept for a year.He gathered his things, and left without waking Greg, who was snoring softly, scooted so far to the edge of the bed that his body was practically hanging halfway off of it. 

Tom walked all the way home—to get his steps in, and to delay the inevitable.


	4. Horny Potential Energy & Imminent Chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make this feel so much less void-y, so thank you for the feedback!

The city was warm and misty and quiet at 6 AM. There was a manic electricity in the air that always bothered Tom around this time of year, on the cusp of Spring, when you get a warm day out of nowhere, like a preview of what’s to come. It made him nervous and jumpy—more so than usual. Too much horny potential energy, a feeling like chaos was imminent.

Tom turned his phone on somewhere around West Houston, having turned it off the night before, when he’d failed to resist temptation. Shiv had texted him once last night, and called and texted again just minutes ago.

11PM: ** _You called?_**

6:09AM: **_Where are you, Wambsgans?_**

He shot off a quick response.

_Sorry honey, overdid it at Happy Hour. Had to crash at one of the guys’._

_See you at home tonight._

“The guys” was not a thing. Really, the only work friend Tom had was Greg, and there was no world in which he would go out for drinks casually with anyone else in the office. But Shiv didn’t pay enough attention to know that, so it didn’t matter.

Tom could smell his own B.O. by the time he crossed through Washington Square Park, and he beelined for the nearest Equinox, in Flatiron.

A cheerful mannequin-come-to-life greeted him at the door, telling him to _enjoy his workout, Mr. Wambsgans_ , and he grinned back equally cloyingly, knowing full well they _both_ knew he was only going in to wash off a walk of shame before work.

Tom almost passed out under the pleasurable intensity of the spa-grade shower. He spent a while examining the bags under his eyes as he shaved and brushed his teeth mechanically, and used all the free toiletries. He was standing in the locker room in a towel, steaming his suit, when his phone lit up with a text from Greg:

**_Hey. Think you can cut out of work and come to my place around 4 today?_ **

_Yeah. Keep me updated._

**_Will do._ **

Tom was the type of man who, if he hadn’t had the chance to properly groom himself in the morning, would feel distinctly _off_ for the rest of the day. So he felt a little better when he stepped back out into the city decently coiffed, and fragrant with expensive product.

As he walked into the office, though, his contentment faded quickly. Greeting the guard at the door, swiping his ID badge, pressing the button—the routine suddenly felt very alien to him. He was out of place. He shouldn’t be here. He was an outsider and always had been.

Shiv texted back:

**_Dad wants you to come to the apartment tomorrow, first thing. Big meeting so cancel your morning._ **

This whole day was dangerous to his blood pressure.

He wanted to confess everything to the pretty young analyst who said hi to him, shyly, in the elevator. He wanted to hug her and say: _listen,_ _I have to tell you something. I’m a fraud. Do you want to start over with me? Marry me and we'll move to St. Paul! Call me Tom._ He imagined her holding him like a baby as he cried into her bosom.

Instead, he smiled at her and said, “Happy Thursday!”

***

Tom walked a safe distance from the office before hailing a cab to Greg’s. He texted:

_On my way. Update?_

**_Kendall has conditions_ **

**_Talk when you get here_ **

An ominous but unsurprising response. For a guy adrift and on the verge of a nervous breakdown, though, it wasn’t ideal. He rolled down the window and took deep breaths, tried to let the breeze and the sun wash away his overwhelming sense of impending doom. He wished he could take a Xanax—anything, really—to calm his nerves, but he knew he had to be sharp.

***

Greg greeted him with a bro hug, clapping him on the back awkwardly. He was dressed down, in black slacks and a thin navy sweater with a white t-shirt peeking out underneath. Tom had seen Greg in nicer clothes than this before—hell, he’d been the one to spiff him up in the first place. But no matter how expensive or perfectly tailored, finery always looked wrong on him somehow, like he was LARPing as a one-percenter.

He had never seen Greg look _effortless_ before. It was a little destabilizing to watch him amble ahead into the high-ceilinged bachelor pad, and for the first time, to believe that this was really where he lived.

Tom guessed he wasn’t hiding his nerves well, because Greg didn’t ask him if he wanted anything to drink, only looked at him furtively and poured him a glass of scotch.

“Um, shall we?” He said, gesturing cornily over the kitchen island to the living area.

Tom nodded and walked over, “Is Kendall joining us?”

Greg nodded, voice high “Soon. Yeah, but I just wanted us to be able to talk, first?”

They sat, and Tom searched his face worriedly, “Okay. So…the conditions, Greg?”

“Yeah. I’m not sure how you’re gonna feel about this, but Kendall wants you on the inside. Sort of like, like a double agent situation.”

Tom's face twisted incredulously, “ _Double agent_? Who do you think I am?”

“I know—I know. It sounds crazy, but if you think about it, it makes...sense? And you don’t have to think of it like that, if—if you don’t want to. You can just think about it like, you’re gonna go about your life like everything’s normal, but you’ll just maybe pay a little extra attention, and tell me and Kendall about everything that happens.”

Tom took a drink, shaking his head, “As if I don’t feel like enough of a meat puppet already.”

Greg looked down, “Sorry. But—don’t think about it like that. It isn’t like that. You’ll be _with_ us, and this part is just temporary.”

“Fuck.”

“I mean, think about it in the context of your situation. Shiv is basically doing the same thing to you. What she’s doing is worse, though, because this thing is bigger than you and me and Logan. Like, this is how we fight back.” His face was so earnest and hopeful, Tom wanted to punch it.

“Don’t give me that moralizing bullshit. This is about revenge, and it’s about winning. This is Kendall’s massive ‘Fuck You’ to daddy. You don’t give a shit about _justice_ , or the _victims,_ Greg.”

“Um…well. I do, like, personally, give a shit. But. If you don’t—like, if that’s too liberal-y for you, or something, then you can think of it as payback, or whatever you want.”

“It’s just context, right?” He quipped, flatly.

Greg’s eyebrows drew together and he began, “Tom, if—“ but was interrupted by the shrill ring of his phone, and he answered, “Kendall? Oh…oh okay, yeah. Better safe than, uh, sorry. Okay, okay. One second.” He hit mute and looked worriedly at Tom.

“It’s Kendall. He wants to talk to you. Are we good? Do you not—”

Tom rolled his eyes a little at Greg’s grave expression, and held out his hand. Kendall was so self-serious. Greg unmuted and handed the phone over, and he put it to his ear impatiently.

“Hi, Kendall”

“Hey. Look, man. I’m sorry for the theatrics here, but I don’t wanna risk meeting you in person. My dad has me followed regularly. Can’t risk fucking this up before we’ve started, yeah?”

“And…you’re not worried about the phone? I mean, could he be tapping?”

“They're both burners. Greg will give you one, too.”

“Ah. You’re not kidding around.”

He looked over at Greg, sitting with his laptop balanced on his knees, staring at the screen with his mouth open. He looked the part for the nerd in a spy movie who explains all the gadgets, makes the lead look even cooler in comparison.

Kendall chuckled a little darkly, “Nope. So he told you the plan, right?”

“He was just starting to. I, uh, I guess I’m in.”

“I know you’re backed into a corner here, man. But I’m happy to have you. You’re in the vault, you know? Whatever happens with you and Shiv, uh—you’re more family to me than she is, now. Ok? I’ve got you.”

“Ok. I appreciate that, Kendall.”

“Sure. So. You got anything for me now? Before I go.”

“There’s, um, a meeting tomorrow morning. At the apartment. Something big, Shiv said.”

Kendall sighed, “Good. Good. I guess we’re kicking shit off, then. When?”

“First thing.”

“Okay. Greg will give you the full brief. And, uh, Tom?”

“Yeah?”

“My sister’s a cunt.”

***

Greg explained precautions they would take to avoid detection, gave him a burner phone, and told him about Kendall's plan. They were less worried about the lawsuit, and more interested in information that might help with the proxy battle. Board member details, history, strategy, weak spots—anything.

"Was this your evil plot all along, Cousin Greg? Infiltrate conservative media to blow it up from the inside, dump the bodies, and paint it rainbow?"

Greg looked sullen, "I didn't actually have a plan. I just, kinda…rolled with the punches? But—but I’ll be glad if some good can come of it, you know, for sure.”

“Uh-huh.”

Tom's brain was addled—a day of inadequate meals and fried nerves made the scotch soak into him deep and burning in the pit of his stomach. He shook his empty glass at Greg, “Got any more of this? We’re celebrating, right?”

Greg looked at him, a little concerned, but nodded and went to pour them both drinks. Tom followed him into the kitchen.

“Are you sure you’re on board for this, dude?” Greg said, as they clinked their glasses together.

He kept looking at him with this cautious worry, like Tom was some kind of mental patient. Because he’d been feeling a little like one for the past few weeks, he may have been extra sensitive to it.

“I know what I’m doing, Greg. I’m a grown-up.”

The sun was going down, flooding bright orange light through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. That manic spring energy was creeping back up to torment him, and something about Greg’s face was really annoying all of a sudden. He looked at the ground and rubbed his temples.

“Everything ok, Tom?” He felt a warm hand on his shoulder.

He snapped, shrugged out of Greg’s touch, and held up a finger, “Do _not_ ask me that”

Tom stalked towards Greg until he was backed up against one of the massive columns in the loft, and it felt very familiar: the spooked look in Greg’s eye, the increased awareness, the arms raising a bit at his sides in a defensive reflex. It felt almost like relief to Tom. It spurred him on, getting right in Greg’s face.

“Tom? Are you—“

“I swear to god, Greg, if you ask me if I’m ok _one more time_ …” He warned.

“Ok, it’s just—“

“What do I have to do to get you to shut up for one _goddamn_ second?!”

Greg looked like he was about to talk back, “I—“

Tom slapped his hand over Greg’s mouth, and watched his eyes go wide with panic, darting a mile a minute over his face. His nose was puffing air fast over his hand. Now that he’d made contact, and had him pinned, it seemed like a switch turned on in Tom’s brain, not unlike the day in the panic room, and he was possessed with pure impulse.

Before he really knew what he was doing, or could stop himself, Tom reached out his free hand to pull Greg’s sweater and T-shirt up, to expose his belly. Greg grunted, eyes wild, and he struggled to lift Tom’s meaty hand from his face, to wriggle out from under him, no doubt trying to speak, to ask him what he was doing, and if he thought maybe, it was possible, perhaps, that he might be going insane.

Tom looked down, entranced and feverish, to see shadows of bruises that were still visible on his abdomen, some reddish around his flank, some starting to turn brown and yellow at the edges as they began to fade, and one particularly angry black and blue, lower down, approaching his pelvis. Tom reached out, and began tracing the marks lightly with his fingers.

Greg’s skin was tremulous, his heartbeat so fast it was visible. Tom watched, fascinated, as goosebumps raised under his fingertips and a shiver ran through his body. His breath hitched as Tom’s fingers trailed lower, and he released a small noise, jerking a bit as he pressed his thumb into the dark bruise that peeked out just over his belt and disappeared under his pants.

Greg had long since ceased clawing at Tom’s hand on his mouth, but now he felt long fingers wrapping gently around his wrist, and he was drawn out of his meditation on Greg’s tie-dyed stomach to look up into his face.

He found those doe eyes, looking down at him, half lidded in what Tom guessed was exhaustion from his struggle. All of a sudden he felt mean and ugly, and regretted everything. Feeling at a loss, he loosened his grip and dropped his hand away from Greg’s mouth, searching for something to offer, like an apology.

Once released, though, he didn’t run, or speak, like Tom had expected. He frowned, deep in concentration, and said something like, “um”, before wrapping Tom in a tight hug. Before he could even react, Greg was taking a small step forward, pressing against him, and he could feel something hard against his hip. Greg drew in a deep, shaky breath, bowing low to hide his face on Tom’s shoulder.

They were still like that for an interminable moment, Tom letting himself be hugged, letting Greg press against him a little desperately. Something snapped in the air, and almost in unison, Tom’s hands found Greg’s belt, and Greg’s found Tom’s collar, pulling it to the side as he nuzzled into the crook of his neck.

Tom managed to get his pants open, pushing him against the wall, pulling away from Greg’s embrace to put distance between them. Greg let himself be pushed, as usual, but lurched his head forward and down suddenly. Tom turned his face away so the clumsy kiss landed on his cheek.

Greg began to murmur something like a question, but Tom stopped him short with a hand at his throat, pushing his head back, forcefully, against the column.

"Stop" Tom said.

He knew talking or negotiation of any kind would kill his nerve and bring him into reality. He looked Greg square in the eye and shook his head slowly, and slid his hand into his pants to rub him through his boxers. Greg shivered, and grew harder as he looked down at Tom touching him.

Dark, pleading eyes watched him intently as he spit into his palm, and slid past Greg's waistband. At the first firm grasp of Tom’s hand, Greg let out a trail of halting whimpers, and steadied himself with a hand on his shoulder. Tom took a moment to adjust to the feeling of another person's dick in his hand. Feeling a gentle squeeze at his shoulder and a quivering breath above him, he started to move, setting a quick, unforgiving pace. 

“Fffuuuu—“ Greg cut the curse off at the end, eyebrows raised and eyes fluttering. When he managed to catch his breath, he pulled his own boxers further down and squeezed Tom’s arm in suggestion. He began moving his hips and fucking into his hand, slowing the rhythm. He looked into Tom’s eyes, his mouth falling open. Tom twisted his wrist around him, swiping at the leaking head with his thumb, and tightening the fingers of his other hand slightly around his throat. Greg released a desperate mewl, his hips jerking.

He became increasingly frantic, hands scrabbling against Tom’s arms where they held him, trying to pull him in closer, hungry for more contact. Tom's breath was coming in shaky gasps, but he held firm, keeping distance between them, and instead moved the palm at Greg's throat up against his cheek. He moaned, leaning into it, lost shamelessly in overstimulation. Intoxicated with the feeling of total control, Tom slipped his thumb into Greg's mouth and watched him lose his grip.

They wrestled for control of the pace. Greg was saying fuck a lot and stroking Tom’s hand appreciatively, his breath coming faster and faster. Suddenly, Greg pulled the hand at his face down, and launched himself at Tom, one hand curling around the back of his neck, and the other twisting into the back of his shirt, their chests flush as he jerked up into Tom's fist and rode out his orgasm against him, whimpering choked monosyllables like “Yeah” and “Tom” and “Fuck”.

Tom froze as Greg’s movements slowed, breath puffing hot on his neck, and he felt a hand move quickly from the back of his head to skate down his chest and finally land to palm his erection. Tom let out a strangled sound he’d never heard himself make before, and startled back.

Confusion registered vaguely on Greg’s pink-cheeked face, and Tom had to look away. He held out a hand, and fled to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He avoided the mirror, leaned against the sink and faced the opposite wall instead as he jerked himself off furiously with a hand covered in Greg’s still-warm cum. It didn’t take more than a few fast strokes before he was shooting streams onto the bathroom wall and biting into a hand towel to muffle his moans.

His ears rung with the sound of his own panting breaths echoing in the little powder room. There was a soft knock at the door.

“I know you don’t want me to ask if you’re ok, so just—can you just come out, Tom?”

He washed his hands, wiped the evidence off his dick and the wall, and opened the door. Greg was a little rumpled, leaning against the kitchen island, smoothing his hair nervously. He looked at Tom, his eyebrows slanted down in that sad puppy dog way.

Tom smoothed down his suit jacket, “Ah…I’m sorry, Greg. That was…that shouldn’t have happened.”

“I’m not, um. Have you ever done that before? Like—with a man?”

He cleared his throat, “Have you?”

“Yeah, um. Yeah.” Greg couldn’t meet his eye.

Somehow, this was a surprise. Tom had seen Greg flustered by pretty girls before, but looking back on it, he’d never seen him with anyone in a romantic or sexual context, at all. He’d been nothing but jumpy and miserable at Tom’s sex party bachelor night, even before he’d railed those three massive lines.

“I wanted to, like, reciprocate? But you—" he pointed in the direction of the bathroom, "and I just thought, maybe...”

Tom went red, “You can't breathe a word of this to anyone, Greg.”

Greg looked ashamed, nodding his head repeatedly, and looking at his hands, “I wouldn’t. I won’t.”

Tom moved to leave, but Greg reached out a hand to stop him, "Wait, wait."

He dug a hand towel out of a drawer and wet it in the sink, walking to stand in front of Tom. He looked down in the direction of Tom's stomach, hunching low. He pressed the warm towel into his shirt. Tom hadn't noticed the stain, but vividly remembered Greg clinging to him like a barnacle as he came.

"Sorry. My bad." He breathed, awkwardly, looking up from his work to glance at Tom's face. 

He couldn't help it, then. He dragged Greg in by his collar, and kissed him.


	5. Knockoff Kennedy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's an entirely plotless little chapter.
> 
> The song mentioned is "I Know It's Over" by—you guessed it—The Smiths. Arguably the premier Tom/Shiv song.

In college, Tom had once let a guy from his poli-sci seminar jerk him off in the Transportation section of the library. He’d heard a rumor that the guy was a distant relative of the Kennedys’, and certainly found him to be handsome, charismatic, and seductive enough to fit the pedigree. As soon as he came—all over borrowed library property that lay forgotten on the floor at their feet—he’d freaked out and bolted, before anything else could happen. He had to pull an elaborate maneuvre with his advisor to finagle a very late transfer into another class.

The Kennedy rumor turned out to have been _just_ a rumor, and Tom never spoke of the whole thing to anyone, with the exception of Shiv. He was silly and square enough to believe that married people didn’t have secrets.

Though brief and isolated, the encounter with the knockoff Kennedy had haunted him for years. He couldn’t deny that it had been a formative erotic experience, whether he regretted it or not.

And it certainly occurred to him, on the way home, that this latest _tussle_ with Greg had been an almost moment-for-moment re-enactment of that vintage hand job in the library—he’d just reversed the roles.

Upon further reflection, though, the water bottle attack had been the same. Also aimed at Greg. Also disturbingly aggressive. It was a worrisome recurring episode, letting his id had take full operating control of his body like that. He was starting to think this might be a sign of some oncoming psychosis. A _Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_ type of a thing.

What had he done with all this dark psychosexual energy before such a temptingly vulnerable, soft-bellied id object like Greg had come along?

Screamed into hand towels? Written strongly worded Yelp reviews? Cried on the phone to his mother? Lost control during sex and choked Shiv hard enough that she’d punched him? All of the above.

In the bathroom at home that night, getting ready for bed, he fantasized morbidly about telling Shiv what he’d just done. What would her face look like? What kinds of names would she call him?

But as he envisioned it, the masochistic thrill withered into sadness as he reminded himself that it was _Shiv_ he was married to. She’d be worried about the chess board. She’d be angrier about losing a strategic advantage than she would be hurt by Tom’s little homoerotic dalliance with her cousin.

Her character was solid and predictable. She was clear about what her values were— _he_ was the hopeless romantic who believed that love was the cure. Right. Must remember not to keep getting that twisted. 

When he slid into bed next to her, she looked up from her iPad and made some clever quip about the news, like they were continuing a conversation, rather than speaking for the first time in roughly 36 hours. He didn’t have enough energy to put on his docile househusband face, so he kissed her on the cheek, turned over, and flicked off his light. 

As he felt his Ambien begin to tug seductively at the edges of his consciousness, a song he hadn't listened to in a long time—maybe since college—came warbling unannounced into his head.

Hearing it fresh, tonight of all nights, as if his subconscious was trying to bully him, the whole song really fucked into his feelings hard and deep. _She needs you more than she loves you,_ was a lyric he'd never thought twice about, before. 

***

Tom had a bit of a fear comedown to process after Logan’s meeting.

At their debrief that evening, Greg seemed to be consumed with the comically futile task of shrinking himself. He’d never looked more like a teenager, overly conscious of every sound and movement he made to the point that it was making Tom uncomfortable by osmosis.

“Am I gonna see Kendall’s face at some point? At least a courtesy visit before Logan finds us out and has me whacked?”

“Are you, like…is there some reason you need to see him?”

Tom looked sternly at him, in lieu of a response. He was starting to get indigestion-type feelings, gurgling dread that this all might go very bad very fast in Greg and Kendall’s notoriously fumbling hands.

“It’s just…a little ill-advised, perhaps? To meet in person with you? And, uh,” Greg’s hands were shaking as they ran through his hair, tucking it behind both ears, looking down at his feet. By about the second week they knew each other, Tom recognized this as his biggest nervous tell. “I told him I could handle this part.”

“This is all very fishy, if you ask me, Greg. I mean, why do we even need to be here at all? We could text. We could do a 3-way call. What else are the stupid burner phones for? This…” He gestured around the sterile room with a disbelieving look on his face, “is a fucking cliché for no good reason.”

Greg had texted him an address and a security code, and when he’d arrived, it was to a skeletal real estate development in Greenpoint—doubtless one of Kendall’s stalled projects. They were in one of the show units, floating between different surfaces to lean against, because all the furniture looked too pristine and unusable. The smell of paint and plaster was oppressive.

“Um.” Greg was looking anywhere but at Tom.

“I thought the whole point of all this ceremony was to build confidence, or something. Look each other in the eye. Create a team dynamic. Circle jerk of trust, or something. Are you keeping something from me here, Greg?”

“No—I mean…no. It’s just, like, I thought…“ he sighed frustratedly, searching for words.

“What’d you think?”

“Um…I thought you might wanna—“ Greg sighed and swallowed, looking like a kid at the doctor who’d just been told he needed a shot, “I mean, should we talk about…the thing?”

He was staring down at his hands, twisting them together, and grimacing as though in some sort of physical pain.

“Greg.”

“Are you worried it was, like, incestuous, or—? Cause—”

“It’s not _incest_ if you’re not blood related, Greg.”

“Yeah. But I’m just saying, like, if you’re worried about it morally, or whatever. I just think, like, on the spectrum of things that tend to go on…I just don’t think it’s that crazy. Like, my family’s pretty, um, generally depraved? And it’s not like…well, Shiv hasn’t exactly been loyal. To you.”

“What’s your point?”

“I, um–nothing, I guess. Just making sure, like, everything’s copacetic, or whatever. Between us.”

Tom narrowed his eyes, “You wanna do it again, don’t you.”

Greg flushed deeper, his eyes going wide and mouth gaping, “Uhhh—“

“Awww, Greg! You got this sordid little spot for us, and now what? Should I suck your dick? Get down on my knees right here? You’re adorable, I mean it.”

Greg crossed his arms and alternated shaking and nodding his head repeatedly, lips quivering in a tight smile. When his eyes met Tom, they were dark and sharp, the way they sometimes got when he was pushed just a little too far. Tom liked seeing it. It was a spark of something manly.

“Seems a lot like _you_ might wanna do it again.”

Tom fidgeted involuntarily, rubbing his fingers together at his sides as though they were covered in something sticky.

“Watch it, Greg.”

“Why can’t you just, like, be a human, Tom? I scraped you off the fucking sidewalk, man! What happened—“ Greg paused to gather himself, raising fingers to his temples briefly before continuing, “Look. You’re confused. And you’re in a precarious position. I get it, like, _believe_ me—I get it. But don’t talk to me like that when we both know what hap—“

“Shut up—“

“No!”

He hated Greg for the challenging look in his eye—because maybe he did want to do it again. Maybe he wanted to so badly his palms were itching. He made for the door instead.

“ _Tom_.”

Taking one last look at Greg there, buzzing with nervous energy, he thought about attraction, as a concept he’d never actually linked with Greg at all. He didn’t love it. Greg’s big hands and his long fingers, flopping weak-wristedly as he talked, or fidgeting at his sides while he listened. The way he said “dude” all the time, and the way his hair shook when he nodded his head eagerly. These should be dumb things—Shaggy from _Scooby Doo_ things—but they hit Tom somewhere deep down, in a way that made him think that maybe Greg just reminded him of someone from his past. Maybe the faux Kennedy, because that might make some kind of fucked up Freudian sense.

But in another way, it was striking how unusual Greg was, and how unlike any other human being Tom had ever witnessed. It was odd how all his parts sometimes accidentally added up to something handsome and strapping, but blink once, and he’d morph into something distinctly off, ungainly—even homely. Greg’s appeal was the uncanny-valley-ness of him. This quality ran deeper than looks, through to his unusual ability to project submissive, vulnerable, earnest, conspicuous, while also comfortably slipping into descriptors like duplicitous, greedy, wily, and Machiavellian. Tom might try to sum him up with some variant of the phrase “hiding in plain sight”.

He’d read and seen documentaries about sadistic serial killers who kept trophies of their victims, and revisited their crime scenes over and over again, taking pleasure from the incidents long after they happened. Tom reminded himself of those little factoids after he went home and jerked off to the memory of stroking Greg’s cock, of curling his fingers around his neck. It had the shameful, guilt-ridden and scary feeling of a crime, and he felt perverted revisiting it. But it got him off either way, and he came violently, smelling his own cum-stained shirt from that day, which he’d kept hidden away in his office along with his burner phone. Like a fucking criminal.

He really was headed for the wrong fucking movie plot, here.


End file.
